


Applied Coping Mechanisms

by Quercusrobur



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Torchwood
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Jack, Comfort Sex, Crowley has a snakey tongue and fangs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Omens Kink Meme, Hair-pulling, I mean for Jack, M/M, One Night Stands, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Massage, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Teasing, WW2, pretty vanilla actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quercusrobur/pseuds/Quercusrobur
Summary: Jack Harkness falls through the Rift and lands in WW2 - again. But this time it's in the wrong universe, and Crowley is grudgingly on the job causing mischief. One reluctant demon, one ill-treated, cursed, and misplaced human, and one night that is too dark and far, far too long.
Relationships: Crowley (Good Omens)/Jack Harkness
Comments: 42
Kudos: 85
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1210728#cmt1210728). "Crowley and Jack Harkness fucking. That's it. As much build up or lack of as you'd like. I wouldn't say no to bottom Crowley but if you can manage to write Crowley service topping Captain Jack Harkness I would owe you everything."
> 
> So, I mean, how could I resist? The first two chapters are all buildup, fair warning. But really I just wanted to heal some of the hurt. It's light on the pining, mostly just a night that will never come again.

Driving back to the Hub the silence is oppressive. It used to be noisy, rowdy, lively with banter; now Jack has to take too many calls alone, bad practice be damned. There's only so thin three people can be spread before they’re just a bloody smear, and at least Jack can get back up from that. He can't stand sleeping, anyway. Especially not down in the dark where the air thickens in his throat with the weight of all those feet of dirt.

"Ianto, you still there?" Jack asks, enthusiastically annoying tone firmly in place.

After a moment, Ianto's voice replies warily from Jack's earpiece, "I'm here, Jack, but the Rift predictor is acting up and I still need to feed Myfanwy and finish the archiving." _Please don't ask if we can play naked hide-and-seek_ , he means, which is unfair; Jack is just as happy to skip to the sex. But that's probably not on offer either.

"I'm getting kebabs," Jack says instead.

"You're in the SUV."

"Yeah, and they start making the order as soon as I pull up. Convenient." The day he had been handed a bag with five orders when he only needed three had not been convenient, but those first days were full of moments like that. He’s done it before. He’ll do it again. Even if he can’t, right now, imagine how.

"Top secret government organisation my arse," Ianto mutters.

Jack grins at the return of banter. "Is it?"

"A lot more secret than Torchwood is."

"I could change that," Jack offers. "Tripod, little better lighting -"

His initial horror at the suggestion long since dulled by repetition, Ianto just laughs. "Make your arse public property all you like, sir, mine is staying top secret."

"How's my -" _clearance looking_ , Jack is going to ask, but Ianto cuts him off, suddenly all business. Jack pouts briefly.

"Something coming up on the Rift monitor. The prediction is for a negative spike, but it was supposed to be in the Bay. Looks like whatever it is is coming in - actually right next to you, pull over next block." Following Ianto's instructions, Jack finds himself running down an alley to an empty back lot. Hand on his holster, he turns in place slowly, looking for anything that seems out of place.

"There's nothing here, Ianto."

"Good," Ianto replies, distracted. "Prediction is updating. You've got the tether, right? Jack!" Urgent now, although there is still nothing to see. "Negative spike confirmed, Jack, tell me you have the tether!"

"Yeah," Jack says, patting his pocket and taking a deep breath. "Yeah, 'course -"

The Rift convulses and the echoes die unperturbed in the empty lot.

+-+

A church. He, Crowley, the Serpent of Eden, certified Demon with a capital D, unholiest of unholies, tempter and mischief-doer and all-around Unsavoury Fellow, had ventured into that most dangerous of Earthly environs to save an angel from his own (adorable, endearing) innocence, and he is pretty sure the part Aziraphale was most impressed with was the stupid bag of books.

He could have been discorporated.

He could have damaged that very dapper suit.

He could have ruined his _reputation_.

He could, it only occurred to him in those last few seconds before the bomb landed, have been destroyed for good and all if an angel’s miracle did not sufficiently stand between him and whatever happens to a font full of holy water when the building in which it resides explodes. The relief of still being _able_ to feel his burnt and blistering feet when the dust settled was so great he simply set them down, one after another, without care as he picked his way out of the rubble.

But, oh, he feels them now. Now that he is home, properly austere flat dark around him, the scent of myrtle and camphor twining in the air and finally beginning to drown out the coriander and vinegar of the initial soak. (Crowley has long believed Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine to be the ultimate resource in this regard, and has no plans to change his opinion at the whim of humans just because they conduct studies now. The endlessly divisive question of _significance_ was a moment of underappreciated genius, he feels.) The pain is down to a dull ache, and the feet are certainly returned to a useful state, but Crowley is nonetheless sprawled in dramatic excess across the fainting couch that goes so well with his eyes. Not that he lets people see his eyes, for the most part. Or his fainting couch. But it’s the aesthetics of the thing.

Ed Murrow’s voice on the wireless rises and falls as he describes another night’s destruction. Despite having been asleep at the outset and all his attempts at derailing the proceedings since, Crowley received a commendation for the whole mess; he sneers toward where it lies on the floor by the door and considers setting it on fire. Sodding paperwork. Sodding bureaucracy. Sodding Creation.

“Crowley,” Ed Murrow says. Crowley jumps, then self-consciously attempts to approximate his previous relaxed sprawl only with more tension. ( _Have you seen the clever boxes_ , they said, and he had not wanted to admit he had been asleep; _get one_ , they said. Crowley wishes the humans were not so clever, sometimes.)

“Speaking,” he says, quite as if the Poet of the Blitz frequently interrupts his broadcasts to speak particularly to one Crowley, Serpent of Eden.

“Who is?” says the wireless.

Crowley pauses. “I am,” he says cautiously. “Crowley. And you are. To whom am I speaking?”

“Lord Beelzebub, you fool! I never have conversations like this face-to-face,” Beelzebub grumbles in Ed Murrow’s voice. “No one dares.”

“I quite agree, Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley says hastily. “Beastly means of communication -”

Ignoring him completely, Beelzebub continues, “It has come to our attention that you have a reputation for _efficiency_ , Crowley -”

And that is how Crowley finds himself leaving his flat and his fainting couch and his - _no, best not_ \- his acquaintances in all their variety behind and traveling to the Continent, to the front, to employ some efficient temptation at strategic points so that Hell may reap their due. Apparently, too many innocent souls are being lost. _Die as cannonfodder_ , after all, has never been a sin.

The weary, ground-in fear of London had been bad enough; what Crowley finds in his travels is enough to inspire any number of nights lost in the bottom of a bottle. A lot of bottles. _War is hell_ , someone who had never been to hell had written. Another someone who also had never been to hell had opined, approximately, _hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned_. Crowley has definite opinions on which of those magnitudes more accurately describes his Head Office. All of Hell’s best ideas have come from humans, and not the other way around; and he should know. 

Another day, another camp. Sloth, easily his favourite sin, is difficult to apply in an efficient fashion under these conditions, but it turns out officers have a great deal of leverage and a sudden infestation of Lust at the top can drive an astonishing outbreak of Anger, Jealousy, and any number of other knock-on effects down the ranks. Lust is alright, depending on the target and their tastes; Crowley doesn't always participate personally, but tonight he is feeling lonely. Although it takes a minor miracle to slip through the camp unnoticed even in the middle of the night, the command tent is easy enough to find. Crowley picks his way through the muck carefully and ducks inside, expecting an equally lonely, easily tempted commander.

“You look a little out of place,” a voice says instead, warm and curious. Startled, Crowley lets the tent flap drop and spins to see a soldier lounging with his feet up on the rough table, long coat trailing, staring straight at Crowley with a roguish grin. “Nice perception filter, though.”

+-+

The one good thing about World War II is that Jack has seen so much of it he has no trouble fitting in, once he figures out when he is. He’s seen London during the Blitz; he’s seen the fighting on the Continent. He’s seen Germany, France, Austria, Poland; now he’s seeing Italy. A charming tour of Europe, sans charm.

One of these days he’s going to get flung back here and it’s going to be one too many Jacks for time to bear and the Doctor is going to blame _him_ for whatever happens next, but it is _not his fault_.

This time, at least, it shouldn’t be more than twenty-four hours. Provided he got Tosh’s prototype working right, of course; for all his 51st century advantages, sometimes he can't make heads nor tails of her notes. Ianto will kill him if he doesn’t make it back, though - possibly literally. For a while he amuses himself thinking up various ways he might show back up, and various ways Ianto might react. If he does end up having to live through the time again, he could hide in the Hub - it was April 8th, 2009, best not forget that - and jump out after he disappears in the Rift. And get shot, probably, but it would be worth it for the look on his pretty face and the apology sex. Or, better! Hide in his _flat_ and be waiting on the sofa for him with a shiny bow for a cock ring. The more naked he is, Jack thinks, the better his chances of coming out of it without bullet holes. At the very least it will keep his coat safe. Ianto would probably be more upset at damaging the coat than damaging him, come to think of it.

Jack sighs as he considers the somewhat amorphous paper airplane his hands have produced. The night is interminable without internet, and sleeping is right out; spending the night fucking a succession of random soldiers is starting to sound like a really good idea. It’s rarely a _bad_ idea, but he had been planning to wait at least until he finds out whether he will be here for long, had thought he could manage _one night_ without constant distraction without going gibbering mad -

So the person who slips silently into the tent then is a very welcome puzzle. He backs in, twisting with an easy grace through the flap - it’s barely enough movement to catch Jack’s eye, just a gust of wind - no, it _wasn’t_. What it is is a damned good perception filter, to catch Captain Jack Harkness that easily. Squinting a bit, Jack pushes his brain through the mental gymnastics required to fix on something that doesn’t want to be there; then he grins. Hot distraction on a plate, ordered up and served to him in the shape of a handsome lieutenant, not so young Jack will have to do all the work and looking much more energetic than the commander he is probably looking for, whom Jack has already shagged into the mattress tonight. He’s about - his hair is -

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Jack cocks his head curiously at the newcomer. It’s a _second_ layer of filter. Grin reignited, Jack lounges back in a flimsy chair not at all meant for the task in his best attitude of nonchalant invitation. This is looking like a high-quality distraction. “You look a little out of place,” he offers, and the newcomer spins, startled. Eyes fixed stubbornly on their face, Jack tries to make out what lies beneath the filters, but beneath the sharp eyes, glasses, well kept hair, there are flashes of dark glasses, flame red hair, angular jaw, and beneath that - _it’s not a filter, it’s not a filter, he isn’t meant to see that_ -! “Nice perception filter, though,” Jack says, stepping back hastily into the real world where things are real and filters are filters and people are people even if they look different sometimes. 

Not _that_.

It slides off his mind like an ice cube on a car bonnet. Distraction, that’s what he wants. “You can take it off,” Jack coaxes. “I can barely keep my eyes on you, and it would be a lot more fun if I couldn’t keep my eyes _off_ you, don’t you think?”

+-+


	2. Chapter 2

There is something very, very odd about this human. Nothing visible, aside from how neatly put together he looks in the midst of mud and blood and the realities of war; nothing Crowley can pinpoint at all. But his eyes are far too old, and his stare is much too intent, and there is no doubt he is not the man scheduled for demonic temptation this night.

Not to mention he is extremely attractive, if in a more conventional way than Crowley’s usual taste, with the kind of effortless all-eyes-on-me charm that Crowley has always rather admired (when it doesn’t belong to a bully, which is almost never in his experience) - and he has just invited Crowley to take something off. “Wh,” Crowley says, the remainder of the word getting lost somewhere; he swallows, and tries again. “Take what off?”

“The perception filter.” 

“What’s a perception filter?” He feels on firmer ground with this question.

The soldier’s smile goes a bit sideways. “The thing that’s keeping me from seeing you. I can see through it if I try, but I, uh. I don’t think.” His face goes blank for a moment. “I’d rather you just took it off. I think.” With a shrug, Crowley dismisses the miracle making him less noticeable as well as the bit of temptation he had had at the ready, in case either of them are what he is talking about. The man drops his feet to the ground and squints up at Crowley, looking confused. “Is that… um? Ginger hair, dark glasses, yeah?”

Equally confused, Crowley frowns. “Were you expecting horns and a tail?”

One brow quirks up. “That’s an oddly specific question. Should I have been?”

“Demon,” Crowley says, waving a hand at himself. What _did_ this strange human see, when he saw through the supposed perception filter? Something of his occult aspect?

Eyes going wide, the man looks him up and down carefully. “That’s… really? Fascinating. Demon, like Heaven and Hell? God and all that rot? Captain Jack Harkness, delighted to meet you.” He doesn’t look delighted.

“Crowley,” Crowley says, then adds, unsure of the niceties when introductions go in this confused fashion, “Anthony J.”

“Really, demon?” Crowley shrugs; the soldier sighs. “I suppose there are angels here too?”

“‘Course there are,” he says, scowling down at this very strange, very _stupid_ human. “I mean, not _here_ , here, but in general, yes. What’s the point, otherwise? And what are you?”

“Immortal,” the man says, and it’s the plain and honest truth. Crowley sputters. “Well, Crowley, Anthony J., looks like it’s me who’s out of place. I think I’m in the wrong universe,” Captain Harkness says morosely, sinking back into his chair. He tilts his head up toward the ceiling. “This is a cruel joke, if you’re listening. Fix me, or put me back. Don’t fuck around like this.” Pulling an odd device out of his pocket, he stares at it with a growing anger; for a moment Crowley thinks he might throw it, or crush it, but the anger drains away and he shoves it back in his pocket. “Must have got it wrong. _Really_ wrong. I don’t… fuck, I don’t know how to fix this.”

He looks - not like a kicked puppy, far too tired for that - he looks like an old dog who's had the door slammed in his face but can't imagine a solution other than sinking down to the ground and waiting. Crowley would sooner be discorporated than be caught caring about puppies, but the other… he has a certain sympathy for. Cautiously he steps closer. "Got what wrong?"

"It's a - there's a -" Captain Harkness sighs and rubs his face. "You sound English. Why would a demon sound English?” He pauses. “Well, maybe that’s the least strange part. I'm from Cardiff, the year 2009. There's a Rift in spacetime there and I've fallen through it and this was meant to be a sort of tether that would bring me back, but something went wrong. If this isn't even my universe, I have no idea where I'll end up when it activates in another eight hours."

"You don't sound Welsh," Crowley says, latching on to the only bit of the explanation that makes sense; then he waves a hand to forestall the reflexive argument. "Wait, what do you mean this isn't your universe?"

The Captain looks like he would prefer the argument. “Well. You. I saw…" He looks briefly queasy, then shrugs it away again. "Anyway, I believe you. Demons, angels, heaven and hell, fine. But mine doesn’t have any of that. Not really.”

Now this is just wrong. Crowley came out here for a simple demonic temptation, not to restore the faith of a broken man; that is entirely out of his purview, and unfair besides. The Arrangement says nothing about _surprise_ blessings. "I can fix it," he says abruptly, deciding to skip the whole question. He clicks his fingers and feels the passing of an unexpectedly significant miracle; the odd human startles at the noise. "There. It'll work, whatever it is. _Don't_ say thank you, I don't do that sort of thing."

"What, you just - why the hell _am_ I trusting a demon, anyway?" But it sounds like a very academic question to him; as if he routinely deals with worse.

"Shouldn't think Hell has much to do with it," Crowley mutters.

"It'll take me home? Really?"

Scowling, the demon looks away from the tentative hope dawning on the Captain's face, turns toward the door. "Yeah, 's fine." Then his poor impulse control - or maybe it’s his love of arguing - gets the better of him. "Look, you can't just _not have anything_ -"

“There’s nothing,” Jack insists, almost angrily. “I’ve seen it. There’s nothing. And it won’t…” He looks away, takes a deliberate breath. “It won’t let me stay.”

There is a wealth of pain behind the words that Crowley wants nothing more than to look away from, because he knows it far too well, it’s much too close to home. At least Crowley knows there is something there to reject him. “There’s not nothing,” he insists. “I’ve been there. Up here is better. If She won’t let you in, for whatever reason…” But he isn’t going to admit that any of this is _right_ , is _good_. He raises his hand again, ready to be done with this conversation. “Nah, you’re right, it’s all a flaming pile of shit. Always has been. Go to sleep, Captain Harkness, and when you wake up you’ll be home.”

Jack’s eyes go wide and he throws himself backward so hard he topples the chair. “No, please,” he says, voice cracking in raw terror before he all but takes himself by the scruff and shakes. Crowley freezes. Expression transforming into an inviting, sensual smile, Jack climbs to his feet and straightens his coat. “Don’t put me to sleep.” He is all fluid grace as he saunters up to Crowley, not a hint of distress visible, not the slightest wobble remaining in his voice - which just makes the change all the more horrifying. His hands settle warm and heavy at Crowley’s hips, thumbs rubbing just below the belt of the uniform he has affected for the evening. The contact sends a jolt straight to his groin and Crowley suddenly realises that the source of the pleasant smell in the tent is the man standing before him. “Call me Jack. Why don’t you stay for a little? I’ll make it worth your while.”

This, too, Crowley knows; this teasing, tempting dance of glances and innuendo, of offers half-voiced and touches half-offered. He has incited all sorts of desire in a great many people over nearly six thousand years and he recognises a skilled seducer when he sees one. But this one seems to be trying a little too hard, offering too much, too soon - and Crowley also knows a great deal about coping mechanisms. “Captain Harkness,” he says, hands at his sides; then, not quite certain why, he concedes, “Jack. You’re trying to seduce me.” It always seems backwards when that happens; and this one _knows_ what he is.

“Sure am. Is it working?” 

Crowley waves a hand vaguely. “ _Demon_.”

Jack’s smile tilts. “What’s wrong with that? Never met an honest-to-God demon before. Sorry, was that insensitive?” Crowley scoffs, trying very hard not to be charmed. _What’s wrong with that_ indeed; only everything. Jack closes his eyes and leans forward to brush their lips together, light and charged as the first drop of rain. His breath flows warm over Crowley’s skin, still very human if an unusually nice-smelling one; a human brave in the face of pain and uncertainty and doubt, and Crowley has always had a soft spot for the ones who can manage that. “If you were an angel,” Jack whispers, “I’d beg for mercy. Please. Stay a while. Don’t make me sleep.”

Crowley came here primed to incite Lust and it has made him far too easy to sway. He has no divine mercy to dispense, and he has no desire to be begged for anything, but he has a great if mostly unacknowledged desire to protect others from the torments meted out by an uncaring divine hand. If this is how this cursed, misplaced human gets through the fear… “Demons aren't known for mercy,” he warns. His hands raise to rest on Jack’s arms; the pressure of the fingers curving around Crowley’s waist gets a little heavier. “Or for being seduced.”

Brows quirked expressively, Jack pulls back to look him over; tension lurks in the corners of his eyes, the set of his mouth. “Alright,” he agrees, after a thoughtful pause. “Would you rather seduce me? I’m flexible.”

“‘S more the usual way,” Crowley admits, amused at the offer. In nearly six thousand years, this is not a conversation he has ever quite had. Still. He slides his hands up wool-clad forearms, lets his thumbs catch in the hollows of elbows for a moment, circles strong biceps as far as his fingers are able and chases the shiver upwards. “Not sure there’s much seduction necessary, really.”

“Oh,” Jack says, swaying against him, eyes half-lidded. “Uh, no. Yes.”

Crowley frowns, concerned again. “Am I doing all that, or are you just easy?”

“I’m easy,” Jack assures him immediately. “I’m really easy.”

“Because you don’t have to - I won’t put you to sleep. No quid pro quo.”

“No, I just -” He looks frustrated now. “Look, I already shagged the guy who was here six ways from Sunday.” Ah, so that’s where the missing commander has got to. He can report that temptation successful, Crowley supposes. “I need distraction, and sex is my favourite thing for it. You can ask, well, basically anyone who’s ever met me. My boyfriend has started buying rubbers in bulk and shoving me out the door with a handful of them, last few months.” Suddenly the desolation is back, piercing the facade. “You’re sure I can get back?”

“I fixed _something_. I felt it take.”

Abruptly the Captain twists away from Crowley’s hands, steps back. His face is set, unreadable, and he swallows harshly. “And could you - could you fix me?”

“No,” Crowley says, feeling the truth of it like sanctified ground, like he feels Aziraphale’s presence. When God - or the universe, or whatever higher power this man has encountered - wills something, so it must be. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Jack stares at him for a long time, eyebrows drawn down but not at all angrily; then he looks away and stares at nothing for another long time. His hands tighten into fists and relax a number of times before he looks back, unreadable mask set aside for a wistful half smile that strikes straight to the heart a demon certainly doesn’t have; some place right next to where he keeps the smell of old books and the taste of wine and the way light dances in that candy floss hair. “I’d still like to fuck.”

“For distraction,” Crowley clarifies.

“For distraction,” Jack agrees. “And because you’re gorgeous, and you look kinda like someone I’d also really like to fuck, and because I really like fucking. Any of that a problem?”

Crowley can’t help but laugh at how ridiculously, unselfconsciously _straightforward_ this Captain is about the whole thing. “Sure, no, no, ‘s fine. You smell good.”

“I get that a lot.” Jack’s eyes roam slowly over Crowley’s face and even though he knows his eyes are still hidden he closes them, not yet quite ready to be seen. For the time it takes to breathe in and out a large hand rests over the place that undemonic heart beats in his chest out of long habit; then it slides up to his shoulder to curl around his neck. There is a hitched little intake of breath as Crowley tucks himself between the open sides of coat, drapes languidly against that strong chest. “Can I kiss you?”

“You have done.”

“I wouldn’t want to presume.”

“Don’t believe that for a second,” Crowley mutters. He doesn’t want _hesitant_ and _wondering_ , he wants _lust_. Lust is easy; lust is comfortable. He tilts his head and warm lips touch his, gentle at first but he isn’t breakable, is he? Neither of them are, he supposes. That’s a nice change. He meets Jack’s tongue without hesitation, opening his mouth to exploration. Jack is slow and thorough and very, very good at it, humming in pleasure as their tongues slide together, letting out an appreciative moan as he discovers the small, sharp fangs. Leaving those had been a spur-of-the-moment risk, but the reaction opens up all sorts of interesting possibilities. Jack moans again and presses close when Crowley bites down and his eyes are wide and dark when the demon lets go and opens his own eyes to see. That’s more like it; Crowley does the tempting, and the providing when he cares to. Jack should do the _wanting_. (Crowley is no stranger to wanting. It’s an ache in his bones that never goes away and he isn’t sure he has room for any more.)

“Do you -” Jack says, trailing off as Crowley smiles lazily. That teasing tongue darts out to wet reddened lips. “Do you bite?”

“If you want me to.”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Jack groans. Now that they are past the initial negotiations he seems almost frantic, hands stripping off Crowley's belt and jacket with thoughtless familiarity, face pressed against the demon's neck, lips moving ticklish against the sensitive skin there as he speaks. "Yes, yes, yes, tell me what you like, whatever you want, the answer is yes -"

It’s a little terrifying to think that this level of desperation has been wandering at large, barely contained in the skin of a man as appealing as this Jack Harkness. What has he agreed to, just for a few more minutes of distraction from whatever horror haunts his dreams? Crowley has a very good idea of what humans can do when unconstrained by expectations or morality.

Someone should do better. “You’ll tell me what you want,” he corrects, as he pushes the Captain’s coat off his broad shoulders, “and I’ll do it.”

In a movement so smooth it must have been lifetimes in the making, Jack sheds his coat, catches it, folds it in half, and tosses it over the back of the chair. The drag of his appreciative gaze is palpable as he reaches for the knot of Crowley’s tie. “If that’s how you like it,” he agrees. “I want you to show me what a demon can do, then. I want to feel it. I want to feel _alive_.”

Crowley smirks, and Jack grins back at him in challenge as he pulls the tie free.

+-+


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry for the long wait. Hope this makes up for it! We all need a little distraction, these days._

Despite the way his hands pull greedily at the demon’s tie and then shirt buttons, despite the way his cock is hard and heavy and aching for touch already, what little remains of Jack’s good sense insists he is _not_ in a hurry. The longer he can keep this fascinating distraction here, the longer it will be until he has to worry about finding another one, after all; and he does want to find out, in detail, just what Crowley is smirking about. With a bit of effort he stills his hands three buttons down, sparse red hair on pale skin just visible, and spreads his hands flat across the narrow chest instead. His thumbs sweep slowly across nipples, fingers curl around to the sides following the contours of ribs.

“So, I’ve found the fangs,” Jack says, as he leans in to lick at the v of exposed skin. The faint sulfur scent is interesting, the clean salt taste much more appealing than the ground-in dirt of the camp and soldiers around them. “I love the fangs. What else have you got? Not horns and a tail, you said.”

“Could do, I suppose,” Crowley says absently. “Always seemed a bit gauche.” As Jack kisses his way up that long throat he tilts his head, winds fingers through Jack’s hair. “Do you want claws?”

“I told you,” Jack murmurs, following the sharp line of his jaw up toward a darling snake tattoo - or perhaps neither darling nor tattoo, considering its bearer. “I want anything you’ve got.”

The fingers clench in his hair, pull him away. “No,” Crowley says; Jack blinks.

“Sorry -”

“We’ve already established that you do not want _anything I’ve got_. Try again, Captain.”

The casual command and the strength in the hand holding his head combine to turn Jack’s knees to water. He had been desperate for distraction; now he is desperate for _this_ distraction, _this_ demon, in particular. Staring into dark glasses reflecting only his own wide eyes, Jack tries to remember what he possibly could have said he didn’t want. He did, didn’t he? He said _don’t_ \- 

Jack swallows harshly as he remembers the even more casual threat to put him to sleep. The demon smiles, a pointed, mirthless expression. “You’re lying to yourself if you think immortality is any protection from me. Every human soul is immortal. Are you sure you want to lay yourself on a demon’s mercy?”

What a shame to waste such a beautiful setup for innuendo. Jack is ready to lay himself on just about anything. But it’s a good bet he won’t be getting any further without a serious answer here, because - a demon who arranged to send him back home with a snap of his fingers? A demon who cares for consent? A demon who won’t let him _lie to himself?_ Jack has never had much interest in ancient mythology, but he has lived long enough in a time that calls it religion that he grasps the basics. Inasmuch as Jack had had any expectations of what a literal, Abrahamic demon of Hell might be like, Crowley does not meet them.

Relaxing into the grip of this supernatural power that could break him - if not fix him - with a thought, Jack says, “This demon, tonight - yes, I’m sure.” Brow slowly furrowing, Crowley stares at him silently. The glasses make it difficult to be certain of the expression on his face. “Can I take your glasses off? And do I call you Crowley, or Anthony, or what?”

“What?” the demon says, startled, which makes Jack grin and open his mouth to do just that. “Crowley! Crowley is fine. Humans, always thinking you’re clever,” he mutters. He doesn’t say anything else, but his fingers relax in Jack’s hair and the furrows shift to something more… perplexed.

Daring to raise a hand to this odd creature’s face, to rub a thumb along that ridge of cheekbone, Jack smiles as he asks, “We good now? You’ve done the obligatory scary bit. I don’t think you like being scary.”

“‘Course I do,” Crowley says defensively; Jack catches a flash of yellow behind his glasses as he looks away. “And if you ever end up in Hell I’m going to take credit for every single bit of Lust you’ve ever inspired.”

“Alright,” Jack agrees, and leans in to kiss him. If he just made a deal with the devil, it isn’t one he can see a downside to.

For a moment Crowley remains stiff and unmoving; then, with a little sigh, he seems to give in. His neck arches against Jack's palm, spare and sinuous like the rest of him; his lips part, but not to let Jack in. Instead he catches Jack's lower lip between his fangs and bites, firm and insistent and hard enough that Jack whimpers. “You like that?”

“I love it,” Jack promises. “Do it again.” With a faint smile, Crowley does, precisely as hard. Jack moans in approval, hands drifting to the demon’s back, over his narrow waist, coming to rest cupping the skinny bit of nothing that is his arse. With room to spare in his hands, Jack pulls him close, grinds his cock against the respectable bulge in the front of his trousers with a groan. He wonders - he shouldn’t, he knows better than to distract himself with comparisons to something he can’t have, no matter how casual the fling - but still he wonders if it would feel the same, because -

He does look startlingly like the Doctor, in the dim light of a camp lantern in a tent in the middle of the night. Not _Jack's_ Doctor, of course. His Doctor was a solid armful, a manic flash of teeth, a cutting rejoinder disguising a kind hand. The new one… the new one has a streak of cruelty. Jack has not held that new body in his arms, has not learned its edges and dimensions, despite that miserable year they spent too close for comfort, too far to be comforted. So of course there is nothing familiar in the feel of Crowley's skinny sharp angles, the unassuming weight of him, the long limbs that so easily encompass Jack. The voice, though - the voice, he knows.

_You’re wrong, Jack._

_There’s nothing wrong with you._

Jack dares not look too closely at that moment lest his touch mar it; he tucks it away, shining and sacred, and turns all his attention to the very good distraction of a hand tugging at his hair and a hard thigh forcing its way between his. 

“May I?” Jack asks once more, laying a finger lightly against the arm of Crowley’s glasses.

“Mm. Yeah, alright.”

With immense care, Jack draws the glasses from his face, folds them absently as he takes in the glorious golden eyes watching him warily. “Wow, yeah.” Snake eyes, he supposes, the dark slitted pupils wide in the low light; but the gold glimmers like coins at the bottom of a well, like some deep secret. “Used to know a girl with eyes like yours. She wasn’t as good a kisser, though.” Jack smiles hopefully and tucks the glasses safely into Crowley’s breast pocket - then unbuttons another couple shirt buttons, since his hand is in the vicinity anyway.

“Think you’re getting confused. That was biting, not kissing,” the demon points out, lips quirking up in dry humour. Jack laughs and tilts his chin up invitingly.

“Either is good.”

“What do you want to happen here?” To Jack’s delight Crowley takes the opportunity offered and leans in to bite gently at his throat, pointed tips scraping and catching slightly in his skin. Jack holds tight as a shiver shakes down his spine.

“Anything but sleeping?"

Crowley bites a little harder and Jack moans. "More specific."

"Fuck me."

The ghost of a laugh huffs against Jack's skin. "Got that, thanks."

“You really want me to tell you what to do?” The agreeable noise he hums into Jack’s collarbone leaves hairs standing its wake as it buzzes across Jack’s skin. “I want you out of that uniform. It doesn't suit you at all."

Casting a jaundiced eye down his lean self, Crowley agrees, "Not what I would choose. I can -" Jack finishes the unbuttoning whilst he speaks, pulls shirt from trousers, and slips his left hand inside to lay flat against the sight concavity of belly, the jut of hipbones, just where the braces and waistband keep him tucked in tight. "Ngk," Crowley concludes, mouth stuck slightly open.

Jack’s right hand settles a little lower, thumb stroking lightly. “I’m very good with buttons.”

Despite the way his hips are moving against Jack in a slow undulation, Crowley’s voice sounds completely casual when he says, from the vicinity of Jack’s left ear where he has moved his exploratory biting, “Sure, sure. Very fast. For a human.” His tongue flickers out, curling with unexpected agility _around_ Jack's ear - Jack gasps as it slides along the spiral contours then presses inside, lithe and ticklish in a way no human tongue could manage. There are places he would much rather have that than his _ear_ , come to it, as much as it seems to be amusing the demon to make him squirm. Blunt fingernails press into the skin of his hip and the rough drag of fabric on his bare cock is -

Hang about.

Jack's startled squawk makes Crowley chuckle. "I'm good with buttonss, too."

" _Good with_ \- where did you put them?" Jack asks in alarm, feeling in vain for his holster, his pockets, any scrap of clothing at all - his _vortex manipulator_ -! "I need some of that stuff!"

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Over there, 'sss all fine. I disstinctly recall you telling me to _sshow you what a demon can do_."

After a quick glance to make sure his things appear intact, Jack lets his attention be recaptured by the slight sibilance in Crowley’s voice, the glimpse of forked tongue between those very kissable lips, the hand squeezing his arse. "Yeah," he says, wetting his own lips and leaning in again. "Yeah, go on. I want to find out how far down my throat that tongue goes. Fuck, I want it all _over_ me."

"Well, immortal Welshman," the immortal demon says, with a sharp little smile that conjures a twinge of the same soul-shock that looking into death gives him, "if you tasste as good as you sssmell…"

Then that smile is devouring Jack's mouth, warm and real and intensely alive, driving the chill that always follows him away. He feels like he should be burning, like he should be enclosed by vast wings, like he should be crushed by a coiling strength, but none of it happens - soft lips move against his, and fingertips rub comfortingly at his scalp, and a lanky body presses close against him, sizzling down the centre of his chest where they are skin to skin. The long, forked tongue sliding between his lips wraps around his tongue and flickers at the roof of his mouth and Jack opens wider with a happy moan.

All the situation wants is a wall to be pinned against and then he could collapse into mindlessness, let this incredible creature take over, keep him in the moment, keep him from thinking about everything he’s trying to forget, keep him moaning as his hips press his cock against an equally hard bulge, looking for more. Fingers tighten in his hair to pull him closer without care for teeth or noses, and that remarkable tongue is venturing deeper, drawing sparks where it touches, pressing in -

_pressing in like dirt like darkness can’t breathe pressure in his chest pain behind his eyes -_

“Bite,” Jack gasps, nose and mouth suddenly free; Crowley has pulled away in alarm. “ _Now_.” He does, and Jack breathes as he leans in to the bright points of pain digging deep into his cheek, below his jaw. One breath, and he can feel the fangs breaking skin. Two breaths, and the darkness disappears. Three breaths, and the pain feels like _pain_ again and not a lifeline so he pushes very, very gently and Crowley carefully lets go, leans back, and procures a flannel from the æther to wipe his mouth as he watches Jack silently. “Sorry,” Jack says, eyes following the line of braces down, away from that bright gaze. “Thank you. I’ve had a rough time lately.”

Crowley folds the flannel and holds it to Jack’s face. "How do we avoid… that?" he asks, waving his other hand vaguely - instead of the other question, the horrible question, and Jack falls a little bit in love with him right then.

Attempting to skip directly to the _avoiding_ , Jack curls his fingers around the stripes of braces, draws knuckles lightly upwards as he leans in to nuzzle at the stark contour of collarbone. “I was fine until my nose was covered for a second there. It'll be fine."

A strong hand catches his chin before he gets there, thumb digging into the bite marks and forcing Jack to look up. Jack leans into the grounding pain, trying to be subtle about it, knowing he is failing. "If you want me to _guess_ where your limits are, Captain Harkness," says the owner of those startling eyes, "you're going to have a very boring evening. I ought to have asked what you _don't_ want, maybe."

"Much shorter list," Jack mutters, but Crowley just looks at him expectantly. “No breath restriction,” he sighs, disappointed. “Maybe nothing in my mouth, today. I’m sorry. Some days it's not so bad. I'm… I understand if you don't want…”

“What else?”

He would much rather deny the existence of any issues at all, but that wouldn’t be fair. “No sensory deprivation.” _Darkness. Silence._

"Anything else?"

Jack tries to look away again, but it doesn't work. This is getting too close to thinking about things he doesn't want to think about. "No confined spaces."

"That one shouldn't be a problem, at least," Crowley says with a light snort, letting go Jack's chin and glancing around the tent, which is notably lacking in cupboards or crawlspaces or even anything like a blanket. Smother him in his own coat? "That everything?"

“That’s it,” Jack agrees. Anything that’s _not_ those things… is _better_ than them. “Short list.” He slips the braces over Crowley’s shoulders and the demon lets him, face settling into a bemused smile; follows them down to flick open cuff buttons. “Off.” Although he steps back to admire the view, Jack is hard pressed to keep himself from leaning right back in to chase the flickers of lean muscle with his tongue, to reach back and hold Crowley’s wrists captive just to admire the way his shoulders stretch as he lets the shirt fall. Letting his eyes feast instead, Jack murmurs, “You are a goddamn work of art.”

Crowley scoffs, elbows escaping to the sides as they come free of his sleeves like unfledged wings; it makes everything move and flex again, and this time Jack raises a hand to feel the shifting angles of him. “Rub it in, why don’t you,” he mutters, but his cheeks darken with a faint flush.

“Exquisite,” Jack insists, leaning close to nibble along his collarbone, letting his hands drift lower. There is a quiet hiss as Jack thumbs peaked nipples. “I’ll bet artists have begged for the chance to paint your portrait. The arch of your neck,” he says, nuzzling into it. A trouser button succumbs to his fingers. Crowley’s hands are on his hips again, thumbs playing teasingly along the tops of his thighs. “The line of your jaw,” Jack adds, licking along the stubble-roughened line. Another button.

“Sshut up,” Crowley groans, and all the other compliments Jack had been planning to stoke that blush brighter and hotter fly out of his head as long fingers wrap tight around his cock. Jack gasps and groans and presses closer.

“ _Fuck_. Gorgeous.”

“Shut _up_.” He is growling into Jack’s chest now, fangs latched in, tongue teasing at Jack’s nipple in a disconcertingly ticklish way.

“Make me,” Jack says, without really thinking it through. “Wait -” Golden eyes gleam devilishly up at him and Jack yelps as a hand comes down hard on his arse to cut him off.

With a very toothy but somehow also very reassuring grin, Crowley says, “One Captain, to be rendered speechless by means demonic or mundane, without gagging or being put to sleep. I accept.” Before Jack can attempt to argue any further his mouth is caught in a brief, hungry kiss; then strong hands are turning him, a leg - still trouser-clad, to his dismay - pushes his stance wide, and he finds himself bent over a table both more cleared and more sturdy than he remembers it being a very short while ago. Hands on his arse, pulling him open; a thumb runs down the cleft of his arse to press against his already loosened hole and Jack moans, shifting backward hopefully. “Why, Captain,” Crowley drawls, “what’ss thisss? Did you ssuppose I would be flattered to be offered ssloppy ssecondsss?”

“Hardly sloppy.” No matter how Jack squirms the thumb refuses to push inside. “Come on,” he whines as it rubs slowly, “come on, come _on, do_ something already.”

“I am doing ssomething.” 

“Just fuck me!” His straining cock is bumping uncomfortably against the bottom of the table.

“Oh, eventually,” Crowley agrees. “But anyone could do that. Hasss done.”

“What - _fuck!_ ” Sharp fangs dig into the tender flesh of his arse cheek; Jack twists in surprise, flails a hand backwards but it is caught in an iron grip and pinned to the small of his back. Another bite, closer to the centre - and not a delicate nip either, a full mouthful caught between those teeth, fangs digging in like needles. “Ow!” Jack insists as Crowley’s jaws close again on his backside; the demon hums agreeably and licks at the mark, making Jack hiss at the sting. But despite the pain there is a warmth spreading from the bites, the hand that no longer holds Jack’s wrist massaging them into a growing conflagration, and when his teeth close next in the delicate skin in the crease between thigh and buttock an odd sobbing moan escapes Jack's throat and he collapses against the table, no longer fighting any of it. “Ow,” he cries quietly, cock dripping slowly between his spread legs as more bites pepper his skin. “Ow, ow, ah, _unh_ -” The thumb still rocks unsatisfyingly against him as the heat grows and grows. His cock is a distant, throbbing ache.

Suddenly the pressure against his hole is gone and hands are rubbing roughly over his tormented backside, setting every bite mark cruelly alight. Jack moans, gone nearly as relaxed and fuzzy headed as after a good caning. Something caresses his balls, traces up toward his waiting hole with a delicacy that makes him shiver in anticipation. “Please,” he whimpers, when it slips and circles and doesn’t push inside either.

It retreats. “Pleassse, what?”

“Inside, please, in me, in me,” Jack begs, feeling terribly empty and desperate for the teasing to at least _progress_.

"Ssshameless," Crowley hisses, and then that agile forked tongue is burying itself in Jack's arse, sliding against skin teased to a fever pitch of sensitivity. Fingers scrabbling helplessly at the table, Jack keens as it flexes inside him like nothing he has felt before, lighting him up from the inside now as well. When it twists and pushes deeper, unerringly seeking out his prostate, Jack is left open-mouthed and gasping like a displaced fish, rocking back and forth as fireworks shoot up his spine. A soft palm strokes the back of his thigh; a thumb stabs into a bite mark. Jack groans at the contrast, shudders as the tongue pulls out with a very distinct feeling of _licking_ his inner walls. It pushes sinuously back in to lap at his prostate again and Jack whines and bucks as a gush of come escapes his cock. Crowley makes a pleased noise that vibrates ticklish and warm against Jack’s sensitive rim, and does it again.

“Fuck, fucking, damn you,” Jack gasps, jerking again as the demon laughs at him. He doesn’t realise his right hand is reaching for his cock until it is pinned to the table with an admonishing hum. “ _Please_ , just let me - please let me come, I’ll be so good, anything you want, just, please -” He babbles, trapped.

The tongue retreats again, a slow rasp against his rim that makes Jack clench reflexively, only to be replaced immediately by two long fingers that breach him with careless force. Stuffing his hand in his mouth to muffle the shriek, Jack shifts back eagerly but despite the promising start they only return to tormenting him, albeit with a firmer pressure and a more satisfying fullness. When the thumb joins them, massaging his perineum from the outside, Jack lays his head back down on the hard table with a hiccuping sob. His cock twitches and spills again, incrementally. He is beginning to feel like an overinflated balloon, drained empty even as he still waits for the _snap_ of relief.

“What a messss you are,” Crowley says softly. “Reducssed to begging a demon.” The fingernails of his free hand scrape over the bites decorating Jack’s arse; Jack moans encouragingly and gets a hard pinch for his trouble. Suddenly the fingers are clenching in his hair, tugging his head around to meet surprisingly gentle golden eyes. “If you’re waiting for mercy,” Crowley reminds him, in a tone of voice that doesn’t match the words _at all_ , “you’ll be waiting a long time.”

Not following at first, Jack almost begs again; but he remembers in time that he is meant to be ordering, not begging, despite Crowley’s decidedly idiosyncratic approach to _obeying_ his orders. Jack whines unhappily. Giving the orders is harder. Crowley waits, tugging gently at his hair, the fingers in his arse never quite still, never quite _enough_.

“Fuck me,” Jack says, trying to sound decisive; it comes out closer to plaintive. “Make me come.” Crowley smirks down at him until Jack’s questing hand slips inside his loosened trousers to squeeze his gratifyingly thick and ready cock, straining at shorts already soaked through. Emboldened by the breathless moan, Jack insists, “ _Fuck me_ , you unbearable tease, I want this cock inside me this _instant_ -”

The trousers and shorts disappear as Crowley pulls away; his hand slides heavy down Jack’s spine and then his fingers are gone and the warmth of him presses fully against Jack’s backside, bony hips reawakening his bruises, thick cock nestled firm and slick in the cleft of his arse. Crowley moans, hips jerking; Jack whines as he squirms, trying to get that length inside him.

“What do you want?” Crowley demands.

“In me, in me, for God’s sake -” A hand comes down on his arse _hard_ and Jack yelps.

“Don’t yell for Her, ssshe is _not invited_ -!” In one quick motion Crowley pulls back, lines up, and pushes in, not pausing until his hips slam Jack painfully against the table edge. Jack cries out, the relief of finally being filled nearly enough to make him come even with his cock screaming for touch.

“Fuck, _yes_ , more -” For once Crowley obeys without drawing things out, thrusting into him hard and fast. Jack grunts at the impacts, the burning stretch of it magnificent after the endless teasing. “Gonna come,” he gasps, clinging to the table. “Hand, now.” He bucks as long fingers cinch tight around his cock, as the fire pooled in the pit of his stomach finally surges toward an outlet. Crowley leans down over him to sink those fangs once more into his shoulder and Jack comes, howling.

He is still catching his breath when he feels Crowley spill inside him with a quiet cry. After a moment the demon pulls out carefully. "Satan, you're noisy," he groans, less sibilant than before. "Lucky you have me around to keep everyone from rushing the tent…"

"You're the reason I'm noisy," Jack points out, sprawled sweat-soaked across the table. He squeaks when he feels fingers carefully collect the come leaking from him and push it back inside.

"Sloppy, now, though," Crowley says, sounding satisfied. The fingers don't leave.

Propping himself up on his elbows, Jack cranes his neck around to peer curiously at his snake-eyed tormentor. "What are you -"

"Well," he says, the points of his fangs gleaming through his grin as he massages gently, so gently, "I think I still have some work to do. That didn't sound speechless to me."

+-+


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley has to hold him down at first, this Captain who wants both a night of mindless distraction and the freedom to complain about every moment of it as it happens. If he is this demanding every night it’s no wonder his boyfriend has given up trying to keep him occupied, whatever sort of relationship they might have had before. He is, presumably, only human. Of course, if someone ever needed such from Crowley - if that someone were Aziraphale - he would give up sleep and everything else to make sure his angel never had to look to strangers for satisfaction.

But that is unrelated and irrelevant to the point of absurdity. Of course.

Jack whines and begs and fusses, curses Crowley with amusing eloquence and tries to escape the hand pinning him to the table with unconvincing effort. Watching him squirm is unexpectedly delightful; the man could inspire a few artists himself, all that well-defined musculature flexing under frankly delicious skin, a poetry in motion spread out under Crowley’s hands. He watches, mesmerised, as Jack makes a particularly artistic attempt to push himself away, back arched, shoulders bunched, head thrown back; then he slides his hand up the column of spine to push the Captain back to the table and leans down to make a fresh bite mark above hips rocking helplessly under his torment. 

Jack drops like a stone, curling in as he comes again with a sharp gasp and a broken cry. Crowley grins, and licks the bite as Jack curses him breathlessly.

“What lovely flesh you have, immortal Welshman,” Crowley murmurs, between sharp bites up Jack’s flank. The little staccato barks of pained laughter are fascinating and the feel of him wriggling between Crowley’s jaws with twitches he can’t quite suppress is nearly enough to leave the demon hissing in predatory instinct. “I could eat you up.”

“Yeah - _ah!_ \- go on,” Jack gasps, still carefully not elbowing Crowley in the face. “Just - _fuck_ -” He tilts his hips, trying to escape the fingers in his arse. His cock is leaking steadily now; Crowley finds himself curious how far he can take this.

He doesn’t stop. “What do you want?”

Curling his fingers around the edges of the table, Jack takes a breath, and another, deeper. He twists to make eye contact and demands, in deliberate contrast to his pleas of _wait_ , and _no_ , and _stop_ , “More.”

So Crowley gives him more. Any eloquence to his cursing quickly fails as Crowley pushes him through a third and fourth orgasm, replaced by toe-curling moans and noises that, if Crowley only had some way to record and distribute them, would win him a commendation for subjecting entire nations to irresistible Lust. 

After the fourth climax Jack’s knees are shaking, hands gripping the table desperately; every gasp of breath comes out as a low wordless sound. He certainly doesn’t need to be held down anymore. Right hand not letting up the relentless massage for a moment, Crowley rubs the pads of his fingers over the bite marks peppering reddened skin. The first round are already beginning to fade. What a fascinating canvas, able to be marked and marked again in such quick succession.

“Please,” Jack gasps. “Can’t.” He is shaking fit to break the table now.

Increasingly fascinated by the possible ways he might answer the question, Crowley asks again, “What do you want?”

Instead of _stop_ or any such obvious thing, Jack says, “Floor.” So Crowley winds left arm about his chest and pulls him up, savouring the high keening wail resulting from the change of angle on his prostate, moves him to the open area of floor on legs barely competent for the task, and lowers them both to their knees. Jack collapses forward to lay his chest and face on the floor, rocking slightly; he sobs when this wins him no relief but says nothing. He lays there for another minute or two gradually relaxing into a boneless pile, shaken by shudders every little while and whining quietly as his cock slides in the growing puddle on the floor between his legs, until suddenly he grunts and convulses and nearly pushes Crowley’s fingers out of him. “Can’t,” he moans again after a moment.

“We can do this all night,” Crowley assures him gleefully. The Captain’s eyes roll back toward him, alarmed, as he pushes his fingers back in and finds the magic spot. Relenting, Crowley adds, “If you want.” Jack takes a breath, and another, tenses gingerly around Crowley’s fingers, and then closes his eyes and lays still. Crowley starts up again very, very gently. The little whimpering whines spilling from his throat are delicious; Crowley finds himself wondering if his angel might make such noises, and then tries to stop wondering, and then - and then he groans as his left hand finds his own cock, bends forward to lick at the sweat beading at the small of Jack’s back. What’s the use, after all, denying it? 

What would he taste like?

Thumbing the slick over the head of his cock, Crowley strokes slowly as if it were his angel he were touching; the pads of his fingers, a gently cupped hand. Decadent, surely, all that creamy skin spread out before him like one of those meals Aziraphale takes such pleasure in savouring every moment and morsel of. He could take every bit of time he wanted, finally show his angel how utterly _maddening_ that is to watch; only Aziraphale would not have to _imagine_ himself the delicacy under deliberation -

Since he’s there anyway, he bites again, just to see the surprised twitch. It doesn’t come with a new noise this time, which Crowley decides is boring. Not yet finished playing, he pulls his fingers out, which gets him a plaintive whine, and rolls Jack onto his back. “Over you go, Captain.”

Jack stares up at him, a glassy-eyed, loose-limbed sprawl of perfectly crafted humanity. Like some sort of bright overripe fruit his cock juts up from its bed of dark hair, bright red shading to purple, slick and needy after being ignored for so long. He watches silently as Crowley pushes his legs apart and crawls up between them, hands planted either side of his chest, not touching yet. 

"Finally speechless?" Crowley asks, nearly certain this man will not allow him to claim that condition satisfied until he truly can't respond.

Jack's face breaks into a slow smile. He wets his lips and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out; he scowls, very faintly, and tries again. "No."

When no further answer is forthcoming, Crowley laughs at him. "Yes,” he corrects. Face falling, Jack tries to say _no_ again and Crowley realises he thinks it means the end of their game. "But if you're still trying to argue with me, Captain," he adds reassuringly, "perhaps I have some more work to do." Lowering his head to Jack's chest he closes his lips around a nipple, sucks gently. He enjoys the long moaning sigh this gets him right up until it turns into a breathless shriek as he brushes a knuckle along the underside of Jack's cock - which is even better. "If you were mine," Crowley whispers in confidence to sweet smelling skin, between the open-mouthed kisses he lays in a trail down Jack's torso as he writhes, "I don't think I'd ever let you out of bed."

As he shuffles backward he catches Jack's right leg under the knee to keep him spread wide, re-coats his fingers in slick, and sets them back against Jack's red, puffy hole. When he pushes they slide in with seductive ease and he spends a small eternity fucking the Captain on his fingers, listening to the little whimpers, watching the way he shudders and strains and tries to impale himself further. Feeling generous, the demon slips a third finger in and marvels at the way he relaxes into it. His legs fall open wider, fingers clench against the floor; his head turns restlessly, eyes closed. When Crowley finds his prostate again he jolts and another dribble of come escapes to pool on his belly.

When Crowley finally touches tongue to the base of his cock it wrenches a broken sob from him as his back arches violently.

He tastes good here, too, if more salty. Pleased, Crowley takes his time licking and kissing and tracing the lines of veins across feverish skin. By the time he reaches the head Jack's hips are thrusting in a jagged rhythm and he has made quite a mess of himself. Crowley is starting to feel that needy ache as well so he lets the Captain's leg down and takes himself in hand again, just for a moment - just for a very long moment - he groans as his lips slide down over Jack's cock, thick and satisfying, and forces himself to wait. Hands and feet pushing at the floor, Jack makes a noise Crowley can't describe save as _desperate_. The demon leans down, opening his throat wide, and feels Jack tense in preparation of yet another orgasm; he pulls away, letting his fangs catch briefly below the head of Jack's cock, and Jack sobs again.

"What do you want?" Crowley asks again, just to be sure.

Jack just stares at him, flushed and wild-eyed.

Mission accomplished, then. Done with waiting, Crowley pulls his fingers out, cleans them again, slicks his cock, miracles a pillow under Jack's arse, pushes his knees up, lines up, and sinks himself deep into that loose, willing body in one slow, dragging, glorious push. Jack’s face is a study in bliss, mouth open, eyes glazed. Wrapping fingers around his cock, Crowley groans and makes a few hard thrusts as Jack shakes beneath him; then Jack is coming in his hand with a hoarse shout, almost nothing left in him to spill. Planting his hands firmly on the floor Crowley lets himself stop holding back, just for a little while - lets himself pretend his partner is someone else, just for a little while - and not a minute afterward he is coming apart as well, emptied out in a wash of fire.

In the afterglow, Jack’s ankles hooked behind his back to hold him close, Crowley simply lays his head down and catches the breath he doesn’t really need.

When he looks up, Jack is watching him with uncomfortably discerning eyes. “What?” Crowley mumbles defensively, making halfhearted efforts to untangle himself.

“Have you ever told him?”

“ _What?_ ”

The understanding in Jack’s eyes is just a little too deep, even if his voice is still unsteady. “That you love him. Your angel.”

“I didn’t -”

“Just now,” Jack says apologetically. Crowley looks away; so does Jack, after a moment. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You didn’t ask me _what happened_ , the least I could do is return the courtesy.”

“‘S alright,” Crowley says awkwardly. “Not my business.”

“Yeah,” Jack sighs. His hands come up to rub Crowley’s shoulders lightly. “Look, I just… I’m not who you wish you were doing this with, and that’s fine. Don’t feel bad about it.” He nods toward the back of the tent, the absent commander. “But he’s not either, is he?” Crowley shakes his head and Jack smiles. “Then we’re all probably having a better night than we would have. You’re amazing. I hope things work out for you.”

“Ngh,” Crowley says, admitting nothing, and lays his head down again to lick up the sweet-spice scent that coils so delectably in the air from the smooth skin of Jack’s chest. His strange partner for the evening lies boneless and limp, spent down to mindlessness but still never quite relaxed. What kind of man is more afraid of sleep than of death, or eternity? Crowley rests, and waits, and wonders silently, and when Jack finally shifts and lets his feet drop to the floor Crowley extracts himself, wishes away the rather impressive mess, and climbs to his feet to get dressed.

“Demon, huh,” Jack says, watching Crowley dress through half-lidded eyes.

Crowley slips his glasses back on, and feels better for it. “No second chances.”

Jack considers that statement for a long moment, then, apparently unable to decide how to answer, waves it away. “No, I just meant… You’ve been around for a while, then.”

“Since the beginning,” Crowley allows, dropping the Captain’s clothes on his chest. “Will you put those on or shall I do it for you?”

Rolling his eyes, Jack extracts his pants from the pile and pulls them on with an irritatingly sultry roll of his hips. “I’ll do it. How do you…” He sits up, disappears into his undershirt for a moment. “I’m just a couple centuries into eternity, really, and already it’s… How do you… survive?”

 _Can’t really help it_ , Crowley almost says; but wary hope in light blue eyes is a thing that worms its way through every defence he might raise, every time. “Keep busy,” he says instead. “And… find a friend, if you can.”

Jack smiles, yearning, wistful, _familiar_. “Yeah,” he says. “I know a guy.”

He pats the floor beside him invitingly, and Crowley settles down beside him without quite thinking about why. When Jack has fallen still once more, eyes closed, relaxed and silent but for a quiet humming, Crowley gathers all his skill and finesse and miracles him into a deep, transitionless, completely dreamless sleep. They like that kind of thing Downstairs: betraying trust, denying mercy, forcing people to face their worst fears. All in a day’s work, Crowley supposes. Jack certainly won’t be happy with him when he wakes. But then they will never see each other again, and if there is one thing Crowley does believe very strongly in (besides that bright shining thing he left back in London) it is the healing powers of a good night of sleep.

He aims just a bit of extra miracle at Jack’s tether device, as well; just to be absolutely certain it will work properly in future. To always get him back to his own bright and shining thing, but also - Hell, Crowley considers, is well enough off never getting their hands on _that_.

+-+

Jack wakes to the hum of machinery, the drip of water, the familiar smell and dim light of the Hub. He can hear Gwen singing along quietly with her music, and Ianto banging around in the kitchen. He doesn’t know what day it is, or how he got back, but he knows for damn sure falling asleep wasn’t _his_ idea.

Mugs clatter and Gwen shrieks in surprise as Jack yells, “That snake-eyed son of a hellhound!”

+-+


End file.
